ARCANE
by cupcakeriot
Summary: This is the story of how I, Shae Daela, evident sixteen-year-old genius, became a Superhero and saved the world with some luck, a few good friends, and atomic amounts of caffeine. Rated M for violence, sexual content, and a potential for truly foul language. Original Characters
1. The Origin Story All Superheroes Have

**General Disclaimer: No Copyright infringement intended. Any similarities to Copyrighted material are purely coincidental.**

* * *

**Part One:**

**The Origin Story That All Superheroes Have**

Everyone comes from something or somewhere. We don't just _appear_ in the world. Science says that we're made of the same stuff as stars – that we're as much part of the universe as the universe is part of us.

I believe that. I sort of have to, after all.

I mean, every decent Superhero has an origin story, right?

* * *

**A/N: And so it begins. These are all original characters that I've created, each one inspired in part by various comic book heroes that I've grown up with, and by people I've known in my life. You may see influences from the Marvel'verse (specifically **_**X-Men**_**, **_**Avengers**_**, some **_**Spiderman**_**), the DC'verse (**_**Batman**_** and **_**Teen Titans**_**), as well as James Cameron's **_**Dark Angel**_** and Joss Whedon's brilliance (especially **_**Buffy**_** and **_**Marvel's Agents of SHIELD**_**). It's a curious conglomeration but one that I'm hopeful for. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


	2. ONE

**ONE**

_Los Angeles, California 2086_

I wake with a gasp and sweat on my neck, LA morning light filtering into my window as my thoughts drift and latch onto the idea that I seriously _need_ a west-facing bedroom.

I'm not a morning person. If I _had_ to choose, the particular type of person I am is sort of a mid-afternoon person, right before the sun quits for the day, but not right at sunset. Like four in the afternoon. That's my ideal time.

Until I have my morning coffee – a total of three cups about the size of the soup bowls used in those vintage diners and that are large enough to hold a kitten – my mood is less than sublime. I don't even think I'm alive until that point. Maybe I'm a zombie, or something, and I come back alive as soon as Columbian roast sinks back into my blood. People say that after the Flare, anything was possible.

It isn't comforting to discover that, despite the fact that I specifically time my morning alarm clock in order to avoid these legendary encounters, my father is still in the kitchen when I shuffle towards the coffee machine, edge of a headache echoing my pulse. It looks like he's doing his best to burn a hole through the stock section of the newspaper, judging by his expression. I contemplate turning around and going right back to my room, because he hasn't seen me yet and he honestly doesn't have the best track record for the whole noticing gig, but…the coffee machine is _right there_, almost begging for my loyal attention. We have a bond, the coffee machine and I – certainly a bond stronger than the one I share with my remaining parent.

Which, _sad_.

As quietly as possible, I load the coffee machine with heaping tablespoons of fine ground coffee and the maximum amount of water, inhaling deeply once the percolation begins. There are perks being the only daughter of a billionaire inventor – specifically, the truly impressive speed of the coffee machine. I've just filled my bowl-cup, not two minutes after I started making the coffee, when Leo Daela speaks up from the breakfast nook.

"I thought I told you to stay out of my lab," he says without looking up, which is so rude that I can only blink dumbly at the back of his salt-and-pepper hair. I wish he would go bald. I feel like my world would be a little more fair if that happened.

It really sucks that my decision-making skills are so impaired in the morning, though. I mean, if my caffeine addiction didn't have at least 70% control over my life, I totally would have turned around and I could have pretended that my father isn't such an asshole.

But I hadn't even had a _sip_ yet. I'm not even _functioning_. I shouldn't be held responsible for my following actions. Or the blatant lie that spills from my mouth. "I wasn't in your lab."

I totally was, though. Leo didn't like to admit it, but I was just as smart – probably smarter – as him and I was particularly curious about, well, _everything_. I'm a sponge in the eidetic sort of way. His lab was a wealth of information for me, a playground for my mind, and _damn_ him for putting those cameras up. It wasn't as if I was going to _steal_ his designs, or anything; I can't even work a screwdriver without maiming myself. I just liked knowing how things work.

It was kind of my _thing_.

Maybe some small part of me thinks that I'd get his impossible approval if I knew enough about his inventions. Like he'd be proud.

A very small part thinks this, though. Like the size of an _atom_ small.

"I've already changed the password on the lock," he says dryly as he flips to another page on the newspaper. An _actual_ newspaper. Who even did that, anymore? I bet he bought one of the old warehouses in the city, hired a bunch of people, and _made_ his own newspaper. I couldn't _prove_ it, obviously, but I bet that's what he did. "It now needs my fingerprint and voice confirmation to open. Don't try to go in there again."

"No, really," I hear myself saying, even as I'm screaming _abort _in my head. "I wasn't in your lab. It was probably the cat, or something. Or Hank, that new bodyguard. He looks shady to me."

I don't even know why I'm holding on so tight to the lie. Maybe because I still haven't had any coffee and I'm starting to develop a headache from the withdrawal. We don't even _have_ a cat. Hank did look shady, though.

Leo pauses for a fraction of a second and I think that _maybe_ he'll look at me for the first time since I was four. He doesn't though. He just sort of sighs and folds up his newspaper, taking the time to crease the edges. "If I catch you _snooping_ again," he says once he's folded the newspaper into its original shape, pushing away from the table and standing from his chair, glass of orange juice and vodka in hand. "I will send you to boarding school faster than you can think of a smart ass response. There's nothing worse than a woman who won't listen to a man," he mutters as he walks past me, still not looking up, his expression tight. He disappears upstairs, all calm and disaffected, and I lean my hip against the counter, clutching my coffee cup.

"Whatever you say, Dad," I say to the empty kitchen, feeling a slant of a frown on my lips. "By the way, I got my intelligence exam results back. Finally. If you care, which you don't, my results were literally off the charts. All the colleges want me for early admission. Whoop-di-do."

I sigh, bringing the still-piping hot coffee to my lips and swallowing down half the cup. Leo wasn't a bad person – not really. I mean, he didn't _beat_ me and I didn't ever want for anything. But he was indifferent to my actual existence.

That sucked in a major way.

Leo didn't particularly care where I was, if I went to school, or if I was on designer drugs – I was female and therefore I wasn't eligible, by his standards, to inherit his company, so I basically don't matter. Like I would want to sit around and design massive world-destroying weapons_ any_way. I'm not even jaded for thinking this. It's the actual truth.

I finish my first cup and make a refill before wandering back upstairs, feeling a twinge of something foreboding. Today probably wasn't going to be a good day. But, then again, any day that started out with Leo Daela wasn't a good day for me.

He's like a gloomy cloud, raining on metaphorical parades.

And I _still_ had a headache.

In my own bathroom, I flip on loud music – my current obsession is some underground dark wave band that cranks the bass – with the built-in wall-Pad, balance my giant cup of coffee on the shower ledge, and strip off my pajamas. Even as steam fills the room and my hair is slicked back from my face by hot streams of water, strong coffee lingering on my tongue, my head continues to ache.

I never have headaches. Like, ever – at least, ones that aren't related to caffeine withdrawal. I'm a little worried, actually, especially since I'm already on cup number two. The headache should be _gone_, but still it lingers. Or grows. I actually can't tell the difference because the headache seems to be continuously moving around – first in my temples, then my frontal lobes, then parietal.

Probably, I should seek medical attention. That's what most people would do. But I'm somewhat stubborn in an extreme way and doctors have always given me the wigs. And, if I don't hurry, I'll be late to school. I kind of like school.

Getting dressed is an ordeal, only because my coordination isn't superb on a good day and for some reason, I've gotten it into my head that I can zip up the pleated white skirt that was part of my school uniform while also drinking my coffee in large gulps. It's probably the headache throwing me off. At least, that's what I tell myself as I tuck starched dove grey shirt in, straighten my bowtie, pull on the charcoal cardigan, and slip into vintage chunky black boots, laces tucked inside. Miraculously, I mange to do this without spilling my coffee, even when I hoist a small black messenger bag onto my shoulder, a thin grey scarf looped around my neck.

The day is looking up.

Of course, that tiny moment of positivity doesn't last long. Cleo, the morning maid, has the news on in the kitchen – the right-wing station that I hate but won't say anything about because most people, my father included, love it. The station is extreme, very anti-Morph.

Like the Morph can _help_ it, or anything. They didn't _choose_ to have mutant genetics – the Flare did that for them long before they were born. The Flare – that solar flare drenched Earth seventy years ago and delivered radiation that sped human evolution up a few thousand years– was the cause of a lot of tension around the world. Ordinaries that were anti-Morph, Morphs that were anti-Ordinary, laws, regulations, segregations – all the ridiculous stuff everyone was so sure society got past coming up again.

I didn't really _get_ it. Morphs were the future of human evolution. Science proved that. They weren't abominations, they weren't freaks, and they weren't a sign of the end of days.

They're just people. Sometimes, they were _blue_ people, but they were still people.

I pour my final cup of morning coffee and idly turn my attention to the screen in between the bay windows by the breakfast bar, elbows on the counter as I take long, slow sips.

"_-And in other news, the Morph Registration Bill that is being presented to Congress in the upcoming months will require each Morph in America to register their name and ability to a database. Tensions on both sides of the aisle continue to rise in response to the protests taking place across the country,_" says the female news anchor. The station cuts to footage of Morphs protesting outside of the Congressional house in Washington, D.C., holding up signs that say things like _'Registration Bill Unconstitutional'_ and _'Equal Rights for All People_', while angry Ordinaries exercise their rights of free speech byyelling slurs at the peaceful protesters. _"We have with us General Styrian, who has come to comment on what the military implications will be should this bill pass-_"

I push my coffee away, tuning out the babble of the television. It was so _loud_ and stupid and now I really was running late. I mean, being late to school wouldn't _kill_ me and I didn't particularly care about the people at school, but there was a certain image of me that Leo's public relations secretary wanted me to maintain and I wasn't about to let Paige down. Paige was always nice to me. She remembered my birthday.

Which, obviously, is why I forgave her for picking out a private school that required _uniforms_ – it was so archaic. But, last year, Paige gave me these tickets to a charity concert over in New York and it was _nice_ because I love music. I fell in love with the city. Nobody had ever really given me anything that had actual thought behind it. Paige cared. I mean, she cared about Leo's image, but she cared about me, too.

That's depressing. I should really work on finding some friends.

It's really just LA. The people are so vapid.

I mean, I kind of hate LA – all smog and paparazzo, and no substance. There are nice things, sure. LA is always warm, even in the middle of December, which is nice for me since I tend to run cold anyway. And the music scene is murderous, so that's another plus. And I can walk just about anywhere because Leo likes to live in between downtown and Bel Air, so my school is only about a mile away and right across the street from the best coffee shop south of Seattle.

But the _people_.

"God, does she even own a hairbrush?"

There's an _excellent_ example of people in LA. And I _knew_ she was talking about me. I mean, aside from the fact that I almost never bothered to brush my hair after a shower, I always knew when someone was talking about me. I don't sneeze, or anything, but I do know.

And maybe it's because of the lingering throb of my headache, or maybe I'm just in a bad mood from my encounter – even one as minor as this morning left a stain on my day - with Leo, but I openly scowl at the girl who said it. By scowl, I actually mean that I stop right on the entrance stairs of the school and glare at her.

I _never_ do that. React, I mean. It's just not what I do. I'm all about passivity. I can't be bothered to deal with confrontation. It goes against my nature as a passive-aggressive retaliator.

What's worse is that the girl looks a little startled, as if she can't believe I stopped to make a face. "What are you _looking_ at, freak?"

"The failure of the American society," I quip, adjusting the strap on my shoulder that held a few pens and my fully-stocked Pad.

"Whatever," she sneers as she turns away, her eyes still kind of wild, like she was caught doing something she wasn't supposed to be. She even glances back at me, brows furrowed in confusion.

I continue up the stairs, replaying the interaction. _She did start it_, I reason, _I was only defending myself._ But the way she acted – as if she hadn't said anything, when I _know_ that she did. I heard her.

It's possible that I overreacted.

The headache is really throwing me off, and it does all day. I don't usually put that much effort into school in the first place, despite my evident genius according to the mandatory test all juniors had to take. No ambition is the problem. I'd rather just read books all day than apply myself in school.

I somewhat naturally shun actual responsibility.

I mean, if I did apply myself, that would mean I would have to pick a college, choose a career, _grow up_ and- Well, it's not like I don't _want_ to do those things, I just want to do something different. Something meaningful. Something _more_.

Figuring out what that something will be is the hard part.

I think, one day, I'll just stumble across my destiny and then that'll be that.

I won't have to make a decision.

Still, I do have to bid my time until then, and unfortunately, for me, the majority of my time is spent in school. It's loud and almost nobody actually _talks_ to other people, but there are still popular kids and _jocks_ have somehow survived the modern era. It's all so perfunctory. Cliché.

And, as with every high school cliché, there's that one kid who happens to be a lone wolf. Only, it's hard _looking_ like a lone wolf in a school uniform. The blond hair, regardless of being an artfully tangled mess, probably doesn't help my loner image; however, my face hidden behind an actual book with pages as I settle into a quiet alcove during lunch probably does help. People don't bother me, at least.

I've never claimed to be friendly, exactly. Or approachable.

Actually, I think it's my face. I'm not deformed or anything – far from _that_ if I'm being honest – but I have these really straight eyebrows that furrow a little bit naturally, so it always _looks_ like I'm in a bad mood, even if I'm amused. And my eyes are big for my face. My lips, too. I'm certain it's off putting. The only reason I'm not fazed with my appearance, in general, is because I refuse to do anything to change or help it.

I'd rather just read a book, or twelve. I feel like it's a better use of my time.

Today, though, I have a difficult time concentrating. Apparently, I'm a wimp when it comes to pain, because the moderate discomfort of my headache is driving me to distraction.

And it's clearly _not_ a headache caused by caffeine withdrawal. If it was, it would already be gone. But it's not gone – and now I'm sure that it's getting worse.

Which, of course, means that I have a choice; I could go to the infirmary and talk myself out of the last half of the school day, or I could tough it out. If I go home early, then I run the risk of having another encounter with Leo, because he works from home most days.

It's not as if I'm going to be doing anything different at home than I would at school and I _really_ don't need another interaction with Leo Daela. I don't even think his office staff like dealing with him, honestly.

Tucked into my alcove, I try to concentrate on my book, absently picking at a hangnail. I can't seem to _sink_ into the material though. I keep thinking about waking up this morning, with a twinge of panic in my veins and sweat on my body. What was that even _about_? I don't have nightmares, usually – nothing too terrifying has ever happened to me – but last night I did, even if I can't remember what it was about, exactly.

I sigh, lean my head back on the fashionably exposed brick wall behind me, and close my eyes. I'm a huge believe in cause and effect, so there _had_ to be a reason for both my headache and my mysterious nightmare.

For some reason, my mind keeps backtracking to the indisputable fact that I'm a late bloomer in all the ways that count and that news report I saw this morning, the one with the Morphs protesting for their rights.

Those two topics seem to be inexplicably connected in my head.

I wish I knew why.

* * *

**A/N: Definitely trying out a new style, here – going back to first person, actually. It's been forever since I've written in first person, so it's refreshing. This style is also kind of how I **_**think**_**, though, so we'll see how well it turns out. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


	3. TWO

**TWO**

* * *

_Los Angeles, California, 2086_

Eventually, I decide that I might as well go to class. It's not as if I really _needed_ to go, but it's not as if I was able to concentrate on the book I was trying to read anyway. Either way, I was just passing time.

I mean, I practically always feel like I'm passing time. Until what, I don't know, but the time is still passing. And I'm still watching it go by.

My school is all about being prim and proper, so, aside from being obscenely large, there aren't exactly co-ed classes. I've always thought it was weird, considering the day and age and everything, but the library was extensive and I wasn't one to just complain for no actual reason. It came with the passivity gig.

So, since I was down on the first floor in that little alcove, and since the warning bell had already rung, _and_ since I only came to this class half the time, it took me a while to get up to the right room. I actually almost went into the wrong room. In the wrong hallway. In the boy's section of the school.

I'm always doing that kind of thing, too. I'm absentminded, I guess, which is really ironic when the whole _eidetic-memory_ thing is factored in. I should remember everything, and I totally do to a certain extent, but then things slip my mind. Like class room locations. Maybe if I cared a more about it, I would have better recall – but then, maybe my memory is best utilized for important things. Maybe I don't even _have_ eidetic memory and it's really just my massive genius that-

"Miss Daela. Thank you for joining us."

_Late again, _she was saying. I could almost _hear _it. Being late was such a bad habit – I mean, I don't _need_ any more bad habits. I had plenty already.

Like biting my nails.

And chewing on straws.

Actually, my entire oral fixation should probably go. I'd need to work on that eventually.

I adjust the bag on my shoulder, scuffing my toe against the floor. "Sorry. I swear I didn't intend to be late."

"We were just discussing Romeo & Juliet," she supplies shrewdly, turning her head to look at the class, and then back to glare at me, as if honing in on a victim. Honestly, I understood where Teach was coming from – half of her classroom is asleep or otherwise occupied. I felt bad for her. I understood her need to take it out on me – I was _there_ and I was _late_. "Do you have any thoughts on the play?"

I have many thoughts on the play. Like, over half my life I've spent in the pages – or electronic screens – of books. It was one of my goals to read every decent book ever written. I think I've made a good dent so far, even if I wasn't keeping an active tally.

The point is English happens to be my best subject. "Excellent play," I comment blandly, throwing in a wane smile. I didn't want to actually communicate my feelings on the play, because my general reaction to it was disappointing, and _she _looked like she loved the play. She probably played Juliet in high school, or something.

"That's all you have to say?"

_Ah_. _So it's going to be like this. _That was fine. I mean, I'd been challenged by more than one teacher in my lifetime. They all thought that I wasn't paying attention in class, and usually they were right, but that didn't mean I was clueless. I knew the material, because of my memory, so it wasn't as if they ever caught me off guard. Any other day, I would go ahead to my seat and ignore the challenge until it came time to take the test, but based on the look of this teacher, that wouldn't be a good idea. She had a glint behind the thick lenses of her glasses that promised humiliation. Only teachers were capable of giving that look.

The worst part was, Teach was so _sure _she was going to prove me wrong or humiliate me or whatever – she was gearing up for some serious, life-scarring, _I-can't-speak-in-public-now_ bullying.

And I _hate_ bullies. It's one of the only things I feel any strong emotion for. I hate bullies. I love coffee. There are a few other things, but still, my hatred of bullies makes the short list. Which, _significant_, because it was truly a short list.

"You really want to know what I think," I say, just to be sure. I even feel a little resigned while I say it, because there's only one direction my day can go now and I'm hoping to avoid it.

But Teach nods casually, like she's expecting some insipid answer about how Romeo is so _dreamy_ and that the play was so _tragic_ and about a million other regurgitated answers specifically designed to please teachers.

I don't think I've actively set out to _please _anyone in my entire life – and Teach definitely wasn't going to be the first.

I sigh and cross my arms over my slight chest, tilting my head to the side a bit. "I think the entire play is a twisted subconscious expression of Shakespeare's relative hopelessness, specifically that of his likely depressing life. I think Romeo was one step away from being a pedophile, because Juliet was thirteen and he _still_ slept with her – in fact, I think Romeo was a hormone-driven narcissist recovering from his evidently _heartbreaking_ relationship with Rosaline, who was actually Juliet's _cousin_, and that he didn't actually love Juliet in the first place. And while we're on the subject of love, they literally had _two nights_ together and they ruined at least twelve other people's lives – I count Friar Laurence, obviously – as well as escalating the violence between two households-"

"Miss Daela, that's quite enough!"

"-and the entire paradigm on which the play rests is _clearly_ an external expression for Shakespeare's own inability to absolve the grief of his son, Hamnet, which is done so through the frankly reckless aggression shown by each member of the cast. Furthermore-"

"I _said_, that is _enough_!"

I stop, snapping my teeth together, watching as Teach takes a couple of deep breaths. The rest of the class was at attention, though, as if they were waiting for one of us to hit the other.

Mrs. Keaton shoves her glasses up her nose and walks over to her desk, handwriting – _actually handwriting_ – a note, which she gives to me after stomping over. "Go to the Head Master's office."

My brows shoot up. I'm genuinely surprised. "What _for_?"

"Classroom disruption," Teach says dismissively, but not before I caught an expression on her face that I was all-too familiar with. Contempt.

Ever since I was a kid – before then, probably – _that_ was the look aimed in my direction. I was annoying, too observant, and too curious; I was underfoot as a child and I guess I eventually learned that I should just sort of fade into the background to avoid _that_ look. That's what I normally did, the fading thing. Typically, I mean. I didn't go looking for attention, hence the passive loner persona that I had.

When I look down at the note dumbly and walk right out of the classroom, I'm thrown back into the past a little bit, the faces of all Leo's coworkers, my teachers, my peers….all coming back to me. I mean, I'm sure Leo had his _own_ reasons for the look, but most everyone was a stranger to me, and it sort of solidified the thought that I should just shut up and go away because clearly nobody wanted me around. Or, at the very least, they didn't think I should talk _back_.

I pause in the hallway, frowning down at the note that ordered me to the Head Office, wondering if I should go forward. I could only imagine the reaming I'd get from the Head Master, who already saw me last week for my tardiness. And my head was still hurting, like a low ache all over that pulsed anytime I breathed.

Then again, why _avoid_ it? There likely wouldn't be anything else too entertaining happening for the rest of the day. This could be my highlight – like the icing on a particularly crumby cake.

The Head Office is, predictably, located in the very front of the school on the first floor, and it takes me a good few minutes to get down stairs. Still, one of the secretaries and at least two of the guards stationed by the doors – the guards were, of course, for the celebrity students – give me this disappointed look. Like I should have been faster, or something. I guess Teach called ahead for me. How nice.

I don't have to wait long, though, which I guess is a good thing. I mean, what would I have done if I had time to sit and think about how I acted?

Which, _obvious_.

Head Master Goren isn't one of those men who hesitate to broadcast their displeasure. He's just the type that does it with dramatic flair. And by that, I mean, he sighs a lot and uses his desk to support his elbows as he leans forwards, as if getting physically closer to a student would make them feel _more_ comfortable, even if a desk was separating them. His goatee was trimmed very neatly.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asks.

I look down at the note I'm still holding. "Classroom disruption. I _think_."

Goren doesn't look very impressed. "It's that kind of attitude, young lady, which got you sent to this office."

Alright, maybe he had a point.

I did have a bad attitude. Like, I genuinely did have a horrible attitude most days, headache notwithstanding. I'm somewhat grumpy. _Antisocial_, according to one of the psychologists Leo had sent me to when I hit puberty – I guess he thought I'd have extra emotions to talk about, or something.

But still, I had a bad attitude and probably a problem with authority. And a _mouth_ that sometimes ran away from me. Genius intellect or not, I'm still a teenager with daddy issues and abandonment problems.

Actually, I think I'm coping pretty well.

Most of the time.

But I don't say any of this to Goren. I'm not naive enough to think he'd care. "Sorry," I say instead, because I think that's what I'm supposed to say, not because I actually mean it.

"Yes, well, sorry or not, I trust this will not happen again. A student with your potential should not behave this way," he tells me with a sigh as he looks down at the Pad on his desk. "I must say that I am actually quite shocked at the results of your intelligence exam based on your abysmal grades thus far."

I wasn't sure what to _do_ with that statement. It was true. I couldn't exactly contradict it. Instead of saying anything, I settle into the seat a bit more, waiting for him to continue because teachers, even principals, _loved_ to talk at people. It's probably why they went into the profession in the first place.

"You do not apply yourself," Goren continues – _predictably_. "Can you imagine what a mind like yours could accomplish if you put effort into your life?"

Actually, _no_, I couldn't imagine it. I felt so displaced all the time and that had nothing to do with my IQ. I honestly wouldn't know what I would do if I was at the top of my class or already graduated from college. My aspirations in life have been low in general. I didn't think that would change anytime soon, either.

"You could get into any college in the country. In the world, even. How about Stanford?" he asks. His tone is _hopeful_ and what I'm sure he thinks is _inspirational_.

"California?" I scoff. "No way."

"Harvard, then. Or Yale. Princeton. _Brown_."

"With all those yuppies? I'll pass, thanks," I say, thinking of the East coast and New York and how nobody ever remembered that it was hot in the summer until that time of the year came around. I also think a little about plaid and the fact that all those Ivy League schools were still so exclusive, and about how, with Leo's name, I could get into anywhere _anyway_. I didn't even have to be smart, really.

"What about Oxford, then?" Goren suggests, leaning forward on his elbows again.

"_England_? I'm sorry, I really can't. Not that I have anything against the British, you understand, but they drink _tea_."

Goren blinks at me, as if he can't understand my reasoning. I guess he can't.

"I drink _coffee_," I explain.

His expression drops and he sits back with a sigh. "Miss Daela, I can't help you if you aren't willing to help yourself."

I frown at him. Like, that was very _judgmental_ of him to say. I was helping myself plenty. Helping myself to a whole lot of _avoiding the situation_. And it worked until teachers started calling me _Miss Daela_, as if I'm some debutant waiting to be presented to society or something, and using my last name with an honorific was going to ease me into a discussion that was obviously _so important_, lest my fragile feelings be hurt.

But then, for some reason, I hear myself saying, "Look, I just don't know _what_ I want to do with my future, but whatever it is, I won't be doing it at college. Just because I scored over 180 doesn't have to _mean_ anything. I don't exactly need an education."

Goren looks positively _offended_. "Young lady, you do need to graduate and you won't be doing that unless-"

I cross my legs, nonchalant. He wasn't saying anything interesting. "I could go home right now and complete a GED. I go to school to pass _time_, Goren, not for any other reason."

I've never actually seen a person's face turn puce before, but Goren's did, and I realized rather belatedly that _I_ had just been offensive. Usually I know when I'm doing it and I can try to curb my response, but this time it completely slipped out.

I blame the headache, to be honest, which is exactly what I told Paige when she had to come pick me up after Goren suspended me for three days. For a public relations secretary, Paige did a lot more than her job actually entailed.

And she looks surprised when I mention the headache. "_Really_?"

"It won't go away, either. I thought it was caffeine withdrawal, but it's obviously not- oh, hey, while we're out, we should get coffee."

Paige looks dubious. "You just got suspended."

"I don't see what that has to do with my need for coffee."

She laughs. Sometimes, I forget how _young_ Paige actually is – I mean, she can't be more than fifteen years older than me, but she's so mature all the time that it's easy to forget she's not even thirty-five. She dresses young, though, with a lot of pumps and flowy sheer shirts tucked into pencil skirts, and her dark hair is always curled around her shoulders. She smiles a lot, too, when she's not glued to her phone, cleaning up after Leo.

"Okay, you win. I can't argue against that logic."

"It's inarguable," I agree as she steers the car in the direction of the nearest coffee house.

That's another thing I liked about Paige – she didn't go to the big-chain coffee places. Just like me, she frequented the small businesses around LA. Or maybe I was just like her – I mean, I emulated Paige _a lot_. She's practically the only female role model I have.

Given the time of day, the little coffee house Paige takes us to is nearly vacant and the smell of coffee is potent in the air. She orders some sugary-cinnamon abomination; I ask for the largest straight black available, mostly because it's too cold for iced coffee, even in LA.

As we sit down and take our first sips, Paige says something like, "Just like her mother," around her coffee mug.

I swallow quickly, surprised. "My mother?"

Paige looks up, startled – which is _weird_, since she brought the subject up in the first place. "Your mother?"

"Yes," I say slowly, repeating, "My mother."

This was such a weird conversation. I mean, Paige and I are never this disjointed on the infrequent occasions that we see each other. We hardly ever get to hang out, but I've known Paige all my life. We get along splendidly. I think I could probably talk to her about anything.

"I knew your mother," she offers after a second.

This is odd, too, because I didn't even know that. "You _did_?"

Paige nods, taking a long sip of her latte. I think lattes, in general, are even more complicated _now_ than they were when first invented. If possible. "Only for a little while. Your father hired me when you were almost three, I think."

"She was still around then?" I ask, curling my hands around the giant mug-bowl of coffee, looking away from Paige because the topic of my mom – rare as it was – always made me supremely uncomfortable. I hardly know anything about her, aside from, obviously, that she _left_.

I can feel Paige staring at me. "She was brilliant," she says. "Didn't take any of your father's dramatics, read Jane Eyre to you the few times I was around during bedtime. She could cook."

"She sounds great, aside from the whole _abandoning me_ thing."

Paige smiles sadly. "They were having problems."

That's what everyone told me. About my parents, I mean, whenever I asked when I was younger. They were having _problems_. Nobody ever said what those problems were.

I'm somewhat bitter about the whole thing.

Paige continues before I can respond, staring at me earnestly, in the way that only Paige can do that makes me feel a little guilty for my behavior. Probably because she's my maternal figure, if I'm being honest. Not that I would _ever_ tell her - I don't think I would ever want to be that vulnerable.

I probably wouldn't do well with rejection.

"I didn't know her for very long, and I don't know where she went when she left, but Camilla wouldn't tolerate your suspension. _I'm _not sure what to do about it, aside from damage control with the press if it gets out," Paige pauses, tilting her head at me, expression suddenly serious in a way it never has been before. At least, this expression has never been directed at _me_ before. Leo gets it all the time. I think knowing that just makes it all worse. "You have to try to be happy, Shae."

I nod – not really agreeing, but acknowledging – because I…I don't even know why. It seems like the thing to do. Nod.

The thing is everyone wanted me to be happy, go to college, or stay out of their lab. Everyone wants me to do _something_ with my life.

But me? I just wanted whatever I do to _mean_ something.

So, with as much conviction as I can possibly muster, wincing against the sudden pulse of my headache, I say to Paige, "I'll try harder."

It's the best promise I can make.

It's even a promise I think I can keep.

* * *

**A/N: I'm genuinely shocked at the frankly astounding feedback on the first chapter **_**alone**_**. You guys are awesome! I know you always forgive my grammar, tense-issues, typos, etc., because I don't **_**do**_** betas and I edit the best I can before posting, so keep doing that! **

**Aside from that, you'll be happy to know that this story will be about 40 complete chapters with each chapter being about this length, occasionally longer, **_**and**_** it's fully plotted out. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it. **

**~cupcakeriot**


	4. THREE

**THREE**

_Los Angeles, California, 2086_

Emergency rooms are really, truly depressing.

Beside me, a man has an antique power tool shoved _through_ his hand and he keeps asking the nurse if he can be seen sooner, but the answer is always the same. "Wait your turn," she'll say as she walks by, face buried in a Pad. Last time, she said it before he could even _ask_.

Sitting across from me, in one of the tiny uncomfortable chairs spread around the waiting room, is an old lady with a cane that clearly belongs to a man, and she's kind of clutching at it like it's a lifeline. I guess it probably is.

A little girl coughs into her mother's shoulder, shivering beneath a blanket. Her mom is reading a printout edition of _Cosmonetic;_ the headline is something like, _How to Cinch Your Cyber Crush in Five Steps_.

It smells like hospital – sanitizer and lingering blood – and every time the translucent sliding doors open, the shrill speeding beep of a heart monitor can be heard. It's also really cold. No wonder that kid is shivering. If I wanted, I could freeze water in this room, I bet.

What's worse is that I've been here for _hours_.

I could just use the sway of my last name to get past all this dreadful waiting, but I don't believe in nepotism of any sort. I shouldn't be treated special just because I'm a Daela. It's unfair.

My near-constant headache is also unfair. For the record.

It's Sunday, which means that I've had this headache for four days and while it hasn't gotten worse, it also hasn't gotten better or disappeared. It stays with me as I sleep. My dreams, though I can't remember them, feel disjointed. I think it's terrifying.

I had the thought, earlier today, that I might be dying. It was a sudden thought, but one that kind of stuck with me. I was only finishing my third cup of coffee when a sharp pain splintered through my head – and then I dropped my cup, heard it shatter on the kitchen floor while Cleo cried out in surprise, and I just sort of stood there, eyes closed tight against the pain.

I dropped my _favorite_ coffee mug, too – the one I picked up in New York, the one that was hand-painted varying shades of blue, and with a curved handle. It was heavy and wide, and the lip was just a bit thinner than the rest of the cup on one side. I'd named it Pippin one tired morning.

And I didn't even get to _mourn_ Pippin, because as soon as I dropped the mug and winced at the pain, I'd had to turn around and vomit in the sink, all while Cleo was having a coronary in the background.

This meant my headaches stopped being _unsettling_ and started being _scary_ – terrifying, even.

This meant I had to clean myself up this morning and drive myself to the hospital. I used the car Leo bought for my sixteenth birthday. It's not that I wanted it, not that I asked, and not that _Leo_ even cared – he did it for appearances, which we both knew. Paige probably picked it out, because it wasn't some gaudy color and it was eco-friendly.

Still, I never drove it on principle.

Until now, that is.

I can sort of see one of the sleek taillights from where I'm sitting in the waiting room, if I lean over and look out the window past Hammer-Through-Hand-Guy and his stupid hat.

I didn't name the car.

Because _reasons_.

Obviously.

If I could, I would be reading a book, because the waiting room is so boring and predictable. When I first got here, after signing myself in and filling out the paperwork – _not that it's on paper anymore, but still_ – I tried reading the electronic book on my Pad. But I kept reading the same paragraph over and over because I kept wondering what the _fuck_ was wrong with my head.

It's probably a good thing that I'm not a hypochondriac by nature, because I really hate feeling like I'm sick. I hate _being_ sick, even if it was very rare. I can't even remember the last time I had a cold – _still incurable, unbelievably_.

I guess the last time was when I was a kid.

It's not like I'm going to ask Leo.

He's not even my emergency contact.

I suspect I'm not his emergency contact, either. I think that's probably my Uncle Ger, who lives halfway across the country in some would-be historical time lock. His neighborhood is suck in the 50's.

Not the 1950's, of course – I mean, they aren't _crazy_, or-

The rude nurse comes into the waiting room, casting her eyes over the sickly and injured, hip cocked to the side. "Next," she calls out blandly. "Patient 162."

Hammer-Through-Hand-Guy sighs in relief and stands, carefully cradling the hammer and his poorly wrapped, still-bleeding wound against this soft stomach.

I'm pretty sure I came in after him. That means I'll be next, which, _great_, because I feel like puking again after getting a better look at his hand.

I don't have to wait long. Or maybe I just feel like I don't have to wait long because time feels like it's passing very quickly. Like, I blink twice, maybe, and then the nurse is back calling for Patient 163 – _me_ – but the digital clock on the wall says that half an hour has passed.

Time slows down, of course, once I'm being led to one of the little translucent rooms, asked to sit on a slate bed as the nurse looks over my paperwork.

She doesn't look impressed. "A headache?"

"Persistent."

"For how long?"

"Exactly? Five days, eighteen hours and-" I stop, catching her expression. "Oh. Since Tuesday."

"Hmm."

I hate it when doctors and nurses do that. _Hmm_, they'll say, _looks like that's serious_. Only, the tone is more like, _Hmm, I think I lost my favorite pen_. It's as if they've seen so many patients that everyone is just talking blobs of symptoms. I wonder if they regret their career choice.

"And I vomited today."

She looks at the Pad. "Pregnant?"

"I wrote down _not sexually active_," I say blandly.

"Pregnant?" she repeats.

"_No_. I'm not the Virgin Mary."

Well. The virgin part was true. Just, not anything else – like the miracle birth, or whatever all that was about. People are still religious, but I'm not one of them.

Can't prove it? Then I don't believe it.

And my irritable reference isn't even worth anything, because she doesn't comment, just moves onto another question that I already answered when I filled the forms out.

The doctor at least – I mean, when he _finally_ moseys over to my room after I've watched him drink the world's smallest cup of coffee – doesn't ask unnecessary questions. He looks tired. He needs a shave and, honestly, probably a bigger cup of coffee. I'm tempted to mention it, but then, who am I to judge how another person should drink coffee? I'm certain, by the looks I usually get, that the amount of coffee I drink at one time is abnormal.

Still. Maybe if he drank a bigger cup, he wouldn't _look_ so tired-

"The initial medic-scanner indicates that you don't have a sinus infection or recent head trauma that would be cause for your symptoms. This headache started last week?"

"It woke me up and it's kind of mellowed out, but then this morning it was like an anvil - the ones Wile E. Coyote preferred – was dropped on my head for a second. And then I threw up."

I don't mention dropping my mug. Doc probably wouldn't appreciate Pippin the way I did – especially not with that look on his face.

Sometimes, people get a _look_. Like they have a hunch and the hunch is saying something truly bad, but they don't want it to be true, so it's like their faces are pulled in two directions – the brow furrowed, the mouth upturned. It looks weird. It almost always promises bad news.

I'm even kind of getting a…vibe, I guess, from him. It's something like dread, but detached.

"It could be…"

I lean towards him, just my shoulders. I do that sometimes. Plant my hands on either side of my legs, but kind of tilt forward when I'm curious. It used to drive Miss Manners – I mean, _Mrs. Pricilla_, my etiquette coach from last year before I was "presented to society", which was a _joke_ and something I don't want to think about – nuts. I still do it though. Habits and all that.

"It could be what?" I ask.

Doc looks up at me sharply. "What?"

That's the second time this has happened. First with Paige, now with Doc. I don't get it – do people not realize when they speak?

"What's wrong with me?" I ask instead, because Doc looks seriously freaked.

He clears his throat. "I'm ordering a CT scan for you," he says, looking back down at his Pad with a furrowed expression. "We'll know more soon."

And then he leaves.

"Thanks," I tell the empty room.

The CT scan isn't a big deal. It's actually pretty cool because of how advanced technology is now. They bring the scan to _me_, and then the technician turns the bulky helmet on, and then she leaves and tells me the results will be back in an hour.

Which, _nice_. I can't imagine what it would be like to have to wait days before a doctor could take a look at test results. I mean, our health care system is slow _now_, but I think it's mostly because everything is so segregated in the country. The Ordinaries tend to live in the big cities on the coasts, while the Morphs stray to the mid-lands and the mountains. All it really means is that there are all these people and not enough hospitals, so even if the technology is fast, the _system_ is overflowing.

It's stupid, too, because even considering all of that, there are still doctors and hospitals that _only_ treat Ordinaries. A Morph could be bleeding out on the street in front of an Ordie hospital, and nobody would twitch. And there weren't really _Morph_ hospitals.

It's all just unfair.

By the time Doc comes back, I'm somewhat cranky. My head hurts, I've been sitting still too long, and I'm irritated by the injustices of the world.

But then I look at Doc's face, and I know. I _know_ already. It's not good news, especially not since he slides the door closed behind him, sighs, and sits on the little rolling stool in the corner. He doesn't even look at his Pad. Doc clasps his hands. "Do you know what anaplastic astrocytomas are?"

My stomach drops to the ground. "No," I answer. "I don't read medical journals."

I hate the empathy on his face as he talks at me. He uses phrases like _uncommon multiple brain tumors_ and _possibility of seizures_ and _inoperable without risk of causing deficits in functioning_ and _even with intensive treatment, most patients don't live past eighteen months_.

I don't remember leaving the hospital or driving home.

I do remember the coffee I drink, though, alone in a darkened kitchen.

That green mug, as big as a softball, is now named Frodo.

* * *

**A/N: Again, the feedback for this story is truly astounding. A quick note of **_**Hey, yeah, she's got a condition because I'm that kind of a bastard writer, but origin stories are usually depressing on some level anyway, so.**_** Yeah. **

**Anaplastic astrocytomas **_**are**_** real and about 8% of the general population develops them; people usually only live about 18 months if they go through radiation and chemotherapy; often, surgical removal is difficult because they tend to develop in regions of the brain that control fine motor functions, pain perception, and the central nervous system. I did a paper on it last semester. However, I am tweaking a **_**few**_** things – usually, people only develop one, maybe two. Multiple brain tumors of any kind are incredibly rare. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


	5. FOUR

**FOUR**

_Los Angeles, California, 2086_

Mirrors are kind of absurd. People make them out to be, like, the _ultimate_ revealer of truth, as if looking in a mirror will not only point out all flaws, but also _enlighten_. Whatever. I mean, people are going to see what they _want_ to see.

The good and the bad. Pretty and ugly. Living and dying.

I feel so…I don't even know. There's no adequate way to describe it. Mostly, I feel like it's not happening to _me_, like it's not real, but then I go to sleep at night and even a week later, I'm hearing Doc's diagnosis.

_Anaplastic astrocytomas._

_Terminal illness._

_Seizures._

_Nosebleeds._

_Headaches._

_Anaplastic. Astrocytomas. _

Over and over, like one of those really old record players that are so scratched the music is completely lost to the inadequacies of the vinyl.

It's irritating and I just want to sleep and eventually I do, but not until my stomach has crawled up my throat. And even then, there's the headache, and it's worse because now I _know_ what it is and I torture myself thinking of all the symptoms I missed.

Because of course the first thing I do Sunday night when I can't sleep is look up the symptoms.

I still feel very stupid over it. Like, I had _completely_ ignored all the subtle warning signs, writing them off as staying up too late or not meeting my daily quota of coffee. The headache that I have now…I've had it for months, letting it grow and ignoring it until I had to _face_ the damn thing because it became too big to ignore. I spent too much time in denial.

But it's not like catching it earlier would have made a difference.

Doc was right about that. Eighteen months. It's pathetic that science hasn't figured out a way to cure these diseases, even more pathetic that the estimated survival rate hasn't changed in a hundred years.

Eighteen months.

I won't even make it to eighteen years old.

It makes me so angry that I shake – and then so scared that I panic, trembling during the most inconvenient times.

Like now.

I'm _supposed _to be getting ready for some philanthropic fundraiser that happens to be part of my duties as a Daela – but as soon as I got to my bathroom, my reflection captured my attention and now I can't look away.

I don't look sick.

I don't look like I'm _dying_.

I just look shaky, scared of my own reflection.

Which, _ridiculous_.

I mean, I'm not vain, or anything. I could honestly care less about my looks because it's not like _I_ contributed to them and the actual people who _did _contribute either don't give a shit or disappeared completely.

I'm not _bad looking_ - hard brow, sloping nose, full mouth, firm jaw, all pleasing to the eye, but usually pulled into a grumpy expression – but I _am_ bitter about my looks. I mean, the only time Leo ever sends an iota of attention my direction is when he needs my face to woo potential investors, and even then, the request is passed through Cleo to Paige and _then_ to me. No direct contact because it's just not necessary for him.

Or for me.

Apparently.

Whatever.

I turn away from the mirror and step into a too-hot shower, skin flushing beneath the hot spray, headache easing just slightly. I've always liked showers – the cleansing of the water, the solitude. I think I've taken more showers in the past week just to ease the headache than I have in my entire life. Doc had prescribed pain medication, but…

It kind of felt like cheating.

I mean, I want to know that I'm dying. I don't want to be oblivious or numb it out or anything. The pain is real and it's a reminder, but I don't think it's a _bad_ reminder. I'm not afraid of death.

I'm way too into philosophy to actually be _afraid_ of death.

Like, Socrates _did_ say, "Nothing can hurt a man after death."

I believe that. I don't believe in much, but I believe that.

So I kind of relish in the headache, in the ebb and flow of the pain, because it's _my_ pain, _my_ life, and I have to be aware of it. I want to know the pain and understand it. Live around and with it for as long as I can, because then I'll know I'm alive, and isn't that kind of the point? I sort of want to greet Death with a smirk and a cup of coffee.

I think that would be a ballsy way to go. I'm not nearly ballsy enough.

I wipe at the fog that had collected on the mirror, towel wrapped tightly around damp skin, and stare at myself in the water-warped reflection. My expression is neutral, which means that everything is kind of pulled into a little scowl, and it makes me wonder a little bit about my mother. I mean, was her neutral expression similar? Or-

"Young lady, we do not have the entire night! To be late is to be uncaring!"

I do not roll my eyes. Really, I don't.

Okay. I do. I roll my eyes far enough that I think I can see my own brain. I sigh, too, real heavily because I _really_ don't want to deal with Miss Manners anymore than I have to.

I mean, _Mrs. Pricilla. _She's, like, a hundred years old and her wrinkles have wrinkles, and she talks in this affected accent that dances the line between British and Deep Southern, and I truly don't like the woman or her pantsuits.

It's not even because she's old, either, because I don't have any problems with old people. The elderly do not freak me out. I kind of like them – they deserve a medal, one that says, _I Lived Longer than the Dinosaurs_. They have great stories.

Honestly, my dislike of Miss Manners is mostly because she's always got these backhanded compliments and it annoys the shit out of me.

Like now, as I'm stepping out of the bathroom only in my undergarments – strapless, seamless, and black – as I towel-dry my hair, she clicks her tongue at me. "Lovely, you're prettier than the last time I saw you, but you can be even prettier if you put a little effort into your appearance," she says, turning to the rolling clothing rack behind her. "Now, I know you're not concerned with fashion, so I've put together a few dresses that should work for this function."

Translation: Miss Manners thinks I'm a slob, through and through.

Awesome.

I bite my inner cheek and exhale sharply because I will _not_ be sinking down to her level – not again, at least. The last time I used her own methods against her, Paige called me, all disappointed, and I don't want to go through that again. Not even for a mean old woman.

"I'm so glad you're not obsessed with how you look," she says once I'm stuffed into a too-small slinky dress with a sharp, high collar. "This tan of yours is just…_darling_."

It's literally a miracle that I don't roll my eyes then. I mean, she talks to me like I don't know what I look like, or like I don't care – and, I guess, she's not that far off because I don't _really_ care. But still. It's the principle of the thing. It's not like I can help the fact that because of _California_, my skin is all tawny, and my hair has all these natural highlights, so all that length is every shade of blonde from ash to wheaten.

I mean, it's not like I wander around in the buff all the time. Usually, the only skin that shows is my neck and face, but my entire body is that tawny tone, so I'm thinking it's more _genetic_ than geographical.

Not that it actually matters in the end.

"Sorry, I ran out of SPF 300 last week," I tell her as she fusses at my dress, tugging it tighter around my waist, fiddling with the collar. So cumbersome.

"A lady should never use sarcasm, especially if she is prone to outbursts," she chides.

Translation: Miss Manners just told me to shut up.

So, I do – because my head hurts and I don't have it in me to be combative. And I don't even think it's worth it. People used to say something about old dogs and new tricks, right?

Only, it occurs to me as Miss Manners is directing one of her assistants in the styling of my hair that I'm sort of giving up. I mean, I don't look like I'm dying, but I've already accepted my fate and so now it's like I don't even _want_ to be as snarky as I usually am.

Which, _depressing_. I may be dying, but I don't want to lose myself to my own death. Like, it makes sense in my head once I get my mind wrapped around it, but the point is that I don't want to _give up_.

I'm a big believer of avoiding a problem until it goes away. But this – this was _me_, my _life_, and it wasn't going anywhere yet. I couldn't avoid it.

It's oddly liberating.

Like, I don't even care that my face is all painted up with color, or that my lips are sticky with gloss, or that a deep breath might seriously rip the zipper of my dress even though I'm waifish in the first place. It's like all the crap falls away and it's only my determination and me.

I've got two years.

I can do _so much_ in that time.

I mean, for one thing, there were so many books that I haven't read yet – classic stuff, I mean – and I haven't even been to another country. There's a _bucket list_ of stuff.

I've got two years and a bucket list and what does it matter if I don't know what I want to _do_ with my life when I have this deadline designed for me to _enjoy_ my life while I've still got it?

Starting with this – _getting through this stupid fundraiser in one piece_.

I shuffle downstairs, greeting a busy Paige with a nod of my head before venturing outside, waddling through the doorway as best as I can given the tightness of the dress. It's sunset, which really means that the pompous landscape of Leo's massive front yard is glossed in golden light and I have a sudden appreciation for how _pretty_ it all is. Outrageously expensive and ridiculous – _yes, the front yard is definitely that_ – but still beautiful.

I kind of stare at it for a while, getting lost in how the golden light transitions into a rosy glow, before I look at Paige and her tablet over my shoulder. "Is Leo planning on going to this thing?"

Paige nods distractedly. "He's running late."

"Forget how to work a bow tie?"

Paige snorts, then covers her mouth with her hand. "I'm sure that's not why, Shae," she says, but she doesn't even look convinced of this herself, so…

I tug at the collar of my dress, wishing it were looser, and wait for Leo to show up, all the while thinking about how much I _didn't_ want to go to this thing in the first place and-

Well. Why should I?

I mean, Leo had made it clear that he had no obligation to _me_, so why was he getting this courtesy from me now? But then, knowing Leo, his detached argument would be something like, "I clothe and feed you" and "I bought you a car" and "I pay for your education" – and it's not like me explaining to him that while those _monetary sacrifices_ are important, they don't really make up for his shitty parenting skills. It feels like it would be wasted breath.

I don't really have any breath to waste, do I?

By the time Leo _finally_ makes it down to the foyer, the sun is painting everything orange-purple, and even the limousine driver looks ticked off. Leo doesn't even pause, though, just gets into the limo, _graciously _leaving the door open for me to slide onto the long side bench seat while he pulls out his phone to ignore me some more.

Paige curls her fingers around the door, poking her head into the limo to talk at Leo, "Remember, the CFO of Ordin Inc will be there tonight and he is essential to your next contract. You look lovely, Shae," she adds.

Leo glances up at me then, eyes moving over me clinically. I feel about as big as an ant when he says, "It's good enough. I wish that woman would dress you in something useful, though. Something low-cut."

Paige presses her lips together.

"I suspect Miss Manners chose this specifically for my lack of tits," I snipe.

Leo goes back to ignoring me, though, telling Paige that he'll cinch the contract, blah, blah, blah.

Whatever. Fuckface.

It's not like I _wanted_ a reaction from Leo, anyway.

He's totally not going to be on my bucket list.

But then, isn't life ironic sometimes?

I mean, I'm so _mad_ at Leo and irked that I let him use me for this pointless dance of unofficial business arrangements, that I don't really think about my headache for a while.

Like, I'm not dwelling on it – not even a little – so maybe that's why I kind of….I guess _tune_ into this murmuring that's in my ears, but then not _quite_ in my ears. In my mind, sort of, but echoing hollowly and the talking is _so fast_ that I don't exactly grasp-

It's just-

"_I really hate driving this thing, especially when assholes like this truck draft me-"_

"What did you say?"

Leo doesn't even glance up at me. "I said nothing."

But that doesn't make sense because I _hear_ someone. I mean, it has to be Leo, because the partition is up and my hearing isn't _that good_ but…it's just…

Just like-

_What the fuck is up with that, is that truck speeding up, can't be, shit, gonna run into-_

"The limo is about to crash," I blurt out, hands curling around the side of my seat, heart racing in my chest because I just can't _process_ any of this, not really, and-

I guess I shout it, because Leo looks up, startled, before he rolls his eyes. "Don't be ludicrous-"

The limo lurches, like something big, fast, and full of diesel has just rammed into the back left bumper-

_Shit, shit, SHIT! _

I…it wasn't _me_ thinking that, or thinking about a girl with red hair, or thinking about the highway mile marker that the limo clips, or-

And then everything is upside down and loud and crashing – and sickly distinct sounds of horns honking, bones breaking, glass shattering – and then it all stops and the limo groans as it settles on its side.

It's silent for one long, painful moment.

Like the whole world is paused and it's just me breathing, anchored to a leather seat by a long strap, everything spinning around me. It's not dark because the interior lights of the limo are on, but it is peaceful. No pain. No noise.

Nothing stays paused for long, though, and the world comes rushing back in torrents of sound and waves of pain. Something doesn't feel _right_ about my shoulder and my chest feels like it's on fire. I'm actually suspended from my seat, because the limo is on the left side and everything is a little crunched, and _Leo_ is just slumped over on the opposite side that he was sitting on, but he doesn't look good at all. He wasn't wearing his seat belt.

I feel so dizzy and there's a ringing in my ears and-

It's like a radio, or something, streaming a million words at once, but the connection is crackling and fading in and out, kind of like _I'm_ fading in and out.

Forcing my eyes open, hanging on to any shred of consciousness that I can, I look around the topsy-turvy limo, look for anything that can help. Anything and something quick, because I think that's gasoline I smell and-

_There_. Leo's phone, bloodied and cracked, but still on. Maybe still operational. It's like some survival instinct kicks in, then, and I'm fumbling numbed fingers on my seatbelt, and dropping onto the window once I'm released from suspension. I don't even feel it, though I'm sure the splintered glass is embedded in my knees – but nothing hurts right now, because I need _that phone_.

Shaking hands – my own shaking hands – reach for the thin phone, pressing against the touch-screen, all the while thinking that car accidents are _so_ fifty years ago, thinking that they hardly ever happened anymore because of the magnetic guards built into roads that kept everyone in their own lane. Thinking about who would want to do this to Leo and then feeling stupid for thinking that, because who _wouldn't_ want to do this to Leo? And thinking-

"911. What is your emergency?"

"H-hel-" I stop, coughing, the ruined limo spinning around me as I lean against the floor, which is now more like a carpeted wall. "I need help. The limo- there was…someone hit us."

"Where are you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, because my mind is surging in buckets of _pain_ now – sharp and spiky – and the radio-voices are roaring so loudly I can hardly hear the woman operating emergency dispatch. But. The highway marker-

It was- "Mile forty, on the I-405."

The dispatch woman is calm and collected - and as _comforting_ as that is in this intensely uncomfortable situation – but she kind of fades into the background for me because-

It's just…

Right before the crash…that thought that wasn't mine…

It was just like I was reading his mind.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! I know, I know, I'm putting Shae through hell. But, let's be real, what superhero has a happy origin story? Great suffering leads to great hero work! At least, that's the theory!**

**As always, be brutally honest.**

**~cupcakeriot**


	6. FIVE

**FIVE**

_Los Angeles, California, 2086_

Another day, another hospital visit. Only this time, I'm stuck in the trauma wing and some male nurse has just popped my shoulder back into place after the medic-scanner indicated that it was, in fact, dislocated – which, for the record, I already _told_ him. It was pretty obvious once I was clear-headed enough to get past the voice-radio that faded away as soon as the ambulance sirens came close, leading me to believe that I was seriously having a delusion.

I mean, _mind reading_?

I'm an Ordinary – I'm not a Morph. Nobody in my family is a Morph. It's a little bit genetic and those mutated genes just aren't in my chemical make up. Nope.

I just must have hit my head in the crash. That's all.

Speaking of – the doctor that's treating me isn't Doc, but she seems smart and efficient and she talks very quickly. Brisk. She tells me that I show no signs of head trauma, that I'll have the deep-tissue bruises from the seatbelt for a few weeks, and that my shoulder shouldn't be sore in a few days. Unlike the male nurse, she doesn't tell me I'm lucky, which is _good_ because I already know that _I_ was lucky.

It's _Leo, _though. That's what I wonder about – which, _weird_, because I didn't even know I had it in me to be concerned about that asshole.

"How's Leo?"

She doesn't glance up from her electronic chart. "Who?"

"Leonardo Daela," I clarify, wondering why I bother even as I continue talking. Would Leo bother if it were me? _Has_ he asked about me yet? "He was in the same crash as me."

"I can't release patient information," she says robotically.

I roll my eyes. "He's my _father_."

Honestly, why _else_ would I ask?

She actually purses her lips, glancing at me. "I see. Let me check…" She stops, a deep frown etched onto her face, accentuating wrinkles that I didn't notice before.

And I _know_, before she even says anything, before she looks at me with empathy and concern, that it's not good news – just like I knew it wasn't good news for me when Doc told me about the brain tumors. Hospitals are horrible places. There's never any good news.

"How bad is it?"

She sits down on the edge of the bed I'm on, as if her being unprofessional will make the news easier to process. "His neck is broken at the C-5 junction, his left collarbone is separated from his breast bone, and he sustained very serious internal bleeding. These are only the most serious injuries. He also flatlined during emergency transport," she tells me gently, as if suddenly remembering her bedside manner. "The hospital has already called his emergency contact, but it doesn't look good."

It's the oddest thing, how I internally just _lose_ it. I feel so sad. Lost. Angry. My head hurts fiercely and all I can think about is how I need to see Leo _right now_, because he may have been a shit father, but he was my father and the only family I've known.

My mouth is dry, but I talk anyway, because I've read _a lot_ and I know that good things do not come from broken necks. And I don't know what else to do. My face feels numb and hot, and my body aches something fierce, matching the pulse of my constant headache, but somehow _worse_, even if it is less distracting. "Is he…is there brain activity?"

"_No."_

I look down at my hands. I'm clenching the fabric of my dress. There are bloodstains that I can see, even though the dress is black.

"No," she repeats softly, eyes on the e-chart. "His treating trauma doctor has your father plugged into life support. He is not…breathing on his own-"

"Are there any procedures you can do?" I blurt out, looking at her sharply, watching her jerk back in surprise. "Any way to restore function? Money isn't an issue, I swear, we have more of it than I know what to do with. We'll build a new wing for the hospital. We'll get you a raise or pay off your college loans. There has to be _something_ you can do – and experimental surgery, or-"

"There's nothing," she says as she stands, tucking her tablet into a large pocket on her coat. "Once brain waves cease, there is no life-"

I'm furious. Scared, too. "Are you telling me that one of the greatest engineering minds in the last century is dying and you plan to do _nothing_ about it?" I glare, leaning towards her and- it's weird, but it feels like _she_ is shivering, only I can't _see_ her doing it. Like, I just _know_ that she's scared of me because _I know I look terrifying_, even if I can't see myself. It's weird. "This is unacceptable!"

She nods, expression pinched, as she reaches a hand forward to pat my hand. "I'm sorry," she says, voice trembling.

But, like, I can't even _focus_ on her at all, because it's like as soon as she touched my hand, I got this overwhelming feeling of _concernfearenvy_ that didn't seem to belong to me – and as soon as she pulls her hand away, the bizarre emotions disappear, too.

And then She-Doc is gone and I'm left alone with my thoughts, seriously convinced that I'm losing my mind. The only reasonable explanation is the anaplastic astrocytomas – one of them must be pushing against some part of my brain and that's why I'm having all of these delusions, or whatever.

Only, once I come to that conclusion, I'm not really comforted by it at all.

Leo is dying.

That's the only thing I can think about – nothing else matters.

The question remains, though.

_Who is responsible for this?_

It could be anyone – a rival business, anti-weapon legislation, another _country_. Leo had the potential for a lot of enemies, especially considering his business. He manufactured the weapons used in wars. He had an entire section of his company devoted to Morph-specific destruction devices. It wasn't anything he hid, and even if it was, I _did_ sneak into his lab recently and I couldn't help but look at the blueprints. Leo isn't necessarily a _good_ person. His morals are way off kilter. Everyone is beneath him as far as he's concerned, and that arrogance works in his business dynasty.

Still, the attack itself is very amateur and doesn't seem to fit with the sheer power of Leo's enemies and-

Bile rises in my throat and I lean over, retching in the general direction of a trash bin. I miss. The vomit burns, my eyes water, my head _pounds_, and I can't stay in this room anymore.

Oh, fuck, I really _can't_.

I stand on shaky legs, shuffle over to the sink in the little trauma room, and rinse my mouth out. I'm inordinately pleased that the room doesn't have a mirror. I'm not sure I could take the reminder that I have Leo's eyes. Not now. Not while he's dying – dead already, I guess – somewhere in this damn hospital.

I have to find him.

It isn't difficult. The nurses on duty are all too eager to help the poor soon-to-be-orphan find her nearly-dead-father, which is so _kind_ of them. Altruistic, even. And fuck them for being so nice about it, with pity painted on their faces. In the moments that they help me, I hate them – hate them almost as much as I hate whoever is responsible for the crash.

He wasn't much of a father, but he was _my_ father.

And he looks so insignificant on the hospital bed. Pale. Powerless. Small, with tubes shoved in his veins, and the smooth wheeze of the respirator forcing oxygen in and out of his lungs. It's pathetic. It makes my headache worse, especially when I notice how _aged_ he is.

It's peculiar, because I hadn't ever though of Leo as _old_ before. But he is, or at least, he's older than he'd ever appeared before – his hair greyer than black, deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, furrow lines on his brow, skin weathered. He looks unfairly fragile – bruised and busted – and not at all like the cold man I have known him to be.

None of that matters, though, not when he's not really _here_ anymore thanks to the thick brace around his neck. His mind is gone and when it really comes down to it, that's all that people are.

I don't sit beside his bed, or anything. I don't really have it in me. I just sort of stand dumbly beside him, staring at my father's face, wondering why he never even _tried_ to be a dad.

The door slides open eventually, and I'm not at all surprised to see Paige enter the room with her expression pressed in mourning. She liked Leo, for whatever reason. She told me once that he was a good challenge. I think she was right.

I _am_ surprised to see Jeremiah, though. He's my other uncle and about as far removed from my life as he could possibly be. I've only met him three times, all before age ten. He's a state senator with a campaign that runs on the propaganda that all Morphs are made by the devil and hated by God. Religious fanatics love him.

I suppose it makes sense that Uncle Jeremiah would be here – Leo must have made him an emergency contact – because he's older than Gerard and he lives the closest. Hell, maybe he's the _only_ emergency contact. It might even be good press for Jeremiah to be seen at a hospital comforting his dying brother. There's an election coming up, after all.

I really hate people, sometimes.

Clearly.

Uncle Jeremiah lingers at the door, looking at Leo with distaste and – I mean, I have to kind of wonder if the entire Daela line is just _like_ that, aside from Uncle Gerard, who I'm pretty sure is out of his mind anyway. I wish I'd met my grandparents just to see if it's a genetic thing to be an utter asshole just all the time, and if that's something I need to look out for in the next eighteen months.

But who am I kidding? I'm already a bitch, evidently like a true Daela.

Most of the time, at least.

"Oh, Shae," Paige is saying, coming towards me with her arms stretched out. I let her hug me, mostly because I think _she_ needs it. I would be totally fine without a hug. I don't even really like human contact – probably because Leo never hugged me when I was a kid.

It's incredibly ironic that I'm finally receiving parental-ish affection as he's dying, his own brother barely glancing away from his phone.

And even though Leo was a shitty parent, I'm _offended_ on his behalf. "Put your fucking phone away," I snap at Jeremiah.

"In a moment," he replies, before finishing _whatever_ he was doing and looking up with a politician's expression – perfectly appropriate and obviously _fake_. "Shannen," he says with the expected amount of tired sadness. "Such unfortunate circumstances. How are you holding up?"

I smile in a way that is not at all nice, and it's so _satisfying_ to see him flinch back. It makes me wonder what exactly I look like. "Much better than your campaign - that Morph gaffe you made must have really set your polls back, huh? Not that it'll matter anymore. Leo's death will win you just the right amount of sympathy votes to keep you in office. Lucky you."

I bet it's true, too. The public is so fickle.

My family _sucks_.

God, and I'm _one of them_. Like, I didn't intend to say that at all and now Jeremiah is looking at me as if I'm a particularly stupid bug on the bottom of his shoe. That is, until his expression changes to one of anger.

Fabulous. Should have known.

"You insolent little _sympathizer_, just like your whore mother," he grits out with an ugly sneer that I don't much care for. "I don't have the time in my day to deal with Leo's fuck up and I certainly don't have time for your attitude. You'll do well to shut up while this…matter is dealt with. I have other things to attend to."

It made my stomach churn.

I mean, Leo wasn't any hero, but his death isn't a _chore_. Like, he's not trash that needs to be taken out. I seriously wonder what Leo was thinking when he chose Uncle Jeremiah – at least Uncle Gerard, short a few marbles or not, would have some kind of _heart_. Leo deserved better than…_this_.

"What you can do is _leave_," I huff. "He's my father, I'll make arrangements."

Jeremiah laughs, the sound ugly and harsh. Beside me, Paige stiffens, her hand curling around my shoulder as if in comfort – or to hold herself back. "Don't tell me you think he can be _saved_. The doctors assure me that he's as good as dead anyway."

I don't think I've ever wanted to hit someone before and actually want to follow through with it. Like, of course I've had idle thoughts of knocking sense into people, but I never did anything because, well, _passivity_. Jeremiah was a special brand of asshole – and an exception to the rule, one that I even move my hand to break – but I don't hit him. It's not worth it. I've always been better with words, anyway.

"You're just going to unplug him, then? Just like that."

"Exactly like that," Uncle Jeremiah confirms with a sneer. He hasn't even _looked_ at Leo's body. I didn't believe that anyone could be a bigger fuckface than my father, but his brother is taking the cake. "And then because you aren't fit to run his company, I'll sell the corporation out since it automatically reverts into my ownership in the case of Leonardo's death."

"I hope you choke on your whiskey," I spit out. "_And_ I hope someone discovers the affair you've been having with the Morph that left those marks you're hiding beneath your blazer!"

Uncle Jeremiah's eyes pop wide open and Paige gasps. And I-

I mean, how would I know that? Jeremiah is covered head to toe in clothing, so there's no possible way _I could know that._ But I did know it. I knew where the marks were, that the Morph that gave them was into some seriously twisted fire kink, and that Jeremiah _really likes it when he does that with his-_

"I have to go!" I blurt, almost shouting over Jeremiah's outraged sputtering – which pretty much equaled a lot of spit, gross – and Paige's halfhearted chastisement.

Against my control, my eyes rove over to Leo, brain dead and just…so _gone_, and I suddenly feel like crying. And it's stupid, because Leo hadn't ever- he just wasn't – I didn't even have it in me to finish the thought. There was _too much_ going on.

My feet guide me over to the doorway, which slides open automatically, and I angrily wipe at my face. "Just…I don't care what you do with him. He's already gone."

And it _hurts_ to say that. Even as I speak, it doesn't ring true, even though the evidence is right there, lying basically lifeless in an overly sanitized hospital – even as the proof is drying to a dull rust color on the fabric of my too-tight dress.

Paige nods and moves to follow me. "I'll issue a press release," she says to the room. Nobody answers, mostly because I'm already walking out and Uncle Jeremiah is too busy glaring at me.

The hallway is quiet, solemn because this is the ICU ward, with a few nurses bustling around. I loiter outside of the room, resolutely turning by back to the entire situation because I can't comprehend the fact that I'm now an _orphan_ or that I'm _losing my mind_, while Paige finalizes whatever plans Jeremiah has already made. I think maybe I might have gone alone in any other circumstance, but the thing was that I didn't want to be alone.

Not right now.

I mean, I'm sure I wouldn't ever properly mourn, or anything, but…

"Let's get you home," Paige says once she comes out of the room. Her arm wraps around my shoulders in a comforting gesture that I lean into, even though I'm moderately uncomfortable with the contact.

"Yeah," I agree with a sigh, tilting my head down to look at the ground as we pass by a slow-moving orderly. "Home sounds good."

"A big cup of coffee," she suggests, reaching for her phone when it beeps from her pocket, and answering it. "Hello? Yes, speaking."

Our pace slows as Paige listens to whoever is calling her and as I think about the long hot shower I plan to take so I can just wash this entire day behind me-

Paige gasps, drawing my attention, her arm dropping from my back. "Oh. Oh, no….and you're sure?...I see. Yes, I will make the arrangements. Thank you."

"What was that about?" I ask when she hangs up – not necessarily out of curiosity, because I just _can't_ right now, but more because of habit. And because of her expression.

"It's your Uncle Gerard."

I turn my head, opening my mouth to ask why Paige's face looks so devastated, when a sharp movement catches in my peripheral vision.

It's the orderly ripping open his jacket as the door to…Leo's room opens. There's a bulky vest beneath his clothing and it beeps as the orderly yells, "_We all deserve equal rights, Senator Daela!"_

I slap my hand over my ears, both because of the way his yelling seems to echo – like I'm hearing it twice simultaneously – and because of the sudden sharp spike of pain that lances through my brain.

And then, I'm yelling too before I even piece together what a slowly walking man wearing a bulky, beeping vest might mean –

"_Paige!_ Get down!"

"Wha-"

"He's got a bomb! Everybody take cover!"

And I know this with absolute certainty, even as I dive for the hospital floor, dragging Paige with me, crawling for the adjacent hallway a few feet away, covering my head with my hands.

I _know_ it even though nobody else noticed, even though he's still shouting at Uncle Jeremiah about how Morphs deserve the same rights that Ordinaries do, even as the beeping of the vest speeds, and right as the beeping stops.

The bomb explodes, along with any semblance of a normal life I could have ever had.

* * *

**A/N: Yep. I went there. Poor Shae. Sad feels for the dying teenager?**

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


	7. SIX

**SIX**

_Los Angeles, California, 2086_

Mourning is such a strange thing. I mean, it doesn't actually matter that Leo and Uncle Jeremiah surpassed infinite levels of suck or that Uncle Gerard was a time capsule hippie that I only met once – what matters is that, at the end of a truly traumatic day, I'm the only living Daela. For reasons that are completely obvious, Jeremiah and Gerard were never married and never had children. Leo only had me - and a wife that mastered Houdini's disappearing act.

In the span of ten seconds, I became the heir to my entire family line – the last benefactor in each will and the only one still living to tell the tale. If money actually mattered to me, I would be thrilled at exactly how rich I came when each of my remaining family members died.

But the money makes me sick. I don't want to know about it or hear about how Uncle Gerard was a _very_ successful investment banker before going off his rocker, or about how Uncle Jeremiah unsurprisingly did not donate several hundred thousand dollars to charities every year. I don't want to know about the building Leo owns in New York, the one he's had before I was even a thought but is now _mine_.

There are so many assets, accounts, and _lawyers_ and I eventually snap at all of them, leaving Paige downstairs to do damage control.

Somebody has to be doing it.

The media is having a field day. One of the most well known families in the world, let alone the country, has been wiped out all because the late Senator Daela voted a resounding _no_ on some bill that would have awarded Morphs the same employment opportunities and state benefits as Ordinaries.

I'm not mad at the Morphs, though. How can I be when I _completely_ understand where the minority rebels are coming from? The truth is that Jeremiah was a bigoted asshole who got most of his family killed and the world is better off without him.

It's cold – I know, but whatever. I've never claimed to be _cuddly_, or anything.

And he really was an asshole.

But that's not how most media channels are spinning it. To the rest of the world, Jeremiah Daela was a kind-hearted right-winger, a poster boy of charitable donations, and the radical group of Morphs that wiped out his family are nothing more than an example of why the Morphs should be locked up, sequestered to their own part of the country and left to rot.

It's so _stupid_.

Like, I wish I could make a statement to the press and set the record straight that, _yeah, the Morphs may be responsible, but so is the rest of the world because of how we treat the Morphs in the first place._

But I can't – because the media has taken to calling me The Orphaned Daela and I'm actually afraid to leave the house.

_God_, I am afraid of it.

The first thing I did as soon as I got my head on straight – after being checked over at whatever remained of the hospital and being transported to Leo's house – was hire the biggest security Paige had in her contacts. There were at least thirty men and women stationed outside the house, and a dozen more inside, and I _still_ didn't feel safe.

Especially not when I have a group of blue-suited nerds harping on the responsibilities I now apparently have because I'm the only one left to have them.

Like I _care_.

As I stomp up the stairs and find sanctuary in my room, I distantly hear Paige apologizing on my behalf, handling everything with grace I've never and hope to never have.

I hear her dismiss them, too, all those blue suits. Everything they had to say was nothing I'm concerned about – stocks and reinstating investments, and one guy was on about the continuation of Daela Industries. It could all burn for all I cared.

I sit on the edge of my bed, sort of numb. I mean, I've been that way since that not-orderly ripped off his clothes and exploded in a hospital like a lunatic. It's almost like it isn't real.

What have I to hold on to?

Like, _nothing_. My entire world has imploded beneath my feet and I'm left grappling for metaphors to describe what I'm feeling. Or not feeling.

I'm not grieving anymore. I don't think, at least.

I just-

I want it all over with. I want to be _done_ with the angst, the sadness, and all the _shit_ that was my childhood. He's gone – they're all gone – so there's nothing left to think on.

Moving on. That's what I have to do.

It seems really simple in my head as I sit alone in my darkened room, my east-facing window giving me nothing but cobalt sky peppered with winking stars. I want to move on, I've made the decision, and so that's what I'm doing.

Getting over it.

I sigh, like a cleansing breath or something, and stand up, intent on getting the ground back beneath my feet.

Really, there's only one thing to do, one thing that Leo never gave me but that I have access to now. My mother. Camilla Daela.

Leo was a drunk sometimes, but he always remained a _secretive_ one, and one that held in his pain or whatever. His memories were mainly in his lab, where he spent the most time, but that wasn't what I was interested in. I mean, those were all _Leo_ – he only kept his most prized memories in the lab. I wanted the memories that even he didn't want to face.

The attic it was, then.

Our house – mansion, really, because it was obnoxiously oversized for only two people actually living in it – was part of retro LA, which meant that the now-arbitrary attics that weren't in modern houses existed in the Daela estate. It was surprisingly free of dust once I figured out how to lower the stairs from the ceiling just outside Leo's bedroom door, but I guess Cleo cleaned it every once in a while. The attic was organized, too.

It was almost too easy to find the series of perfectly packed boxes with Camilla's name on it – so easy that I almost felt ashamed for not bothering to look before. I mean, if I had, Leo would have blown up at me and it hadn't seemed worth the trouble, but I didn't even know I had that level of cowardice in me.

I guess that's why I kind of make up for it _now_, ripping open the boxes carelessly, rooting through them, looking for _anything _about her.

Camilla liked minimalist clothing – all slate and one-piece – and apparently had a thing for retro indie music. She seemed like just anyone born in the mid 2000's. Except, I don't feel that way when I come across the only picture Leo had bothered to pack up.

I don't look like Camilla at all. At least, I don't _think_ I do, because the picture is all blurred – blurred because she's holding a baby, assume me, and dancing around the living room. The frame of the picture is distinct Tiffany's silver, heavy for all the picture is joyful.

It doesn't seem right.

She _left_.

How could she look so happy in that picture when she _left me_?

I shove the boxes away, my stomach all knotted up kind of like how my head is aching. Nausea pokes at me, even as I watch my hands pop open the back of the frame, sliding the picture free of Tiffany opulence. The photo is flimsy in my grip, but it still feels like the biggest thing I've ever held.

I leave the attic disorganized, like a tornado ripped through it, and with the picture in my hands, stairs lowered behind me as I go back to my room, tossing the picture on my bed while I stand in the middle of the room.

Honestly, I don't know what I was hoping to find – solace maybe – but whatever it was, I _didn't_ find it. Not at all. Not even-

A sharp pain spikes through my head, my stomach rolling in response as blood rushes through my ears, so _loud, loud, loud_, but not loud enough to drown out the whispering echo of several voices.

Voices that aren't in my room with me.

Voices with distance.

Voices I _knew_.

Paige: _…worried about her, can she cope with this too…_

Cleo: _…job security, could find another employer, but the little miss…_

A lingering blue-suit: _…we can't shore the Daela accounts unless…_

But more disturbing, whisper-dark and _in my head_, the voices that I didn't know, the voices bathed in ill intent, voices that scared me even as I heard them, even as I was retching acid onto my own carpet.

Those voices: _Maury better not be wrong about this shit…girl's gotta be worth a billion dollars, fuck, what a payload-_

Glass breaks in my room – my east-facing window shattering onto the neutral carpets, letting in ski-masked criminals who were tangled in the now-billowing sheer curtains.

I'm kind of clutching the sides of my head, because it hurts and everything is so loud, but I stand up from where I've curled over, hunched close to the carpet without even realizing it.

The _voices_ are louder now, too, and much faster than before. They say words about money and ransoms and opportunities and blueprints – they say words that sound like my name and it's beyond _weird_ because the ski-masks have openings around the mouth but their mouths _aren't moving_.

Then the voices start shouting and now the mouths are moving, forming words, but everything is echoing and blurring together.

It's too much to process.

_It's too much_.

I just want it all to stop.

Just _stop_ – because now they're clutching at me, pressing heavy hands over my mouth even as footsteps thunder up the stairs to come to my rescue, even as I feel my stomach roll with more sickness and the pain in my head is so blindingly sharp that I-

It needs to stopstop_stopstopSTOP!_

"Get away from me!"

My voice screams those words. Shrieking, really. I _shriek _the words and kind of throw my hands out to the side, knocking into a few of the guys who hardly grunt at the impact.

But that doesn't matter.

I mean, I'm not thinking about that right now. I'm not thinking that I want to hurt them because _they're trying to kidnap me_, like it's something that people do these days, which is really, really isn't.

I'm just thinking that I want them to get away from me.

I'm thinking that I just want all this chaos to stop.

One of the men makes another grab for me, this time shoving me to the side as if I weigh nothing more than a breeze.

Through the glass-shard-sharp pain in my head, I scream again, "I _said_, get _away_ from me!"

And just as the door opens and my guards come rushing in, just as I throw my hands out to the side again, they do get away from me.

Only they don't do it themselves.

There's a-

Like, I guess it's a force, or something. Whatever it is, it _pushes _them against the walls of my bedroom right as I'm moving my hands and _I know_ that this happens because I wanted it to.

I told them to get away from me and something broke through my body, something more powerful than anything really, and _that force_ came from me. I made it happen.

And I know this as certainly as I know that I collapse weakly onto my knees, one hand clutching the side of my head where the pain is still _pulsating_.

I know this as certainly as I know that the _voices_ I've been hearing – for the last few weeks, really – aren't voices at all. Not even in the schizophrenic way.

The "voices" are _thoughts_.

Other people's thoughts.

It makes me want to heave up my stomach contents again, even as the striking pain kind of ebbs into a manageable level. I'd thought of mind-reading right after all that bad shit happened, but I never really imagined it was true.

Only, it is.

And it's just as real as me using my fucking _mind_ to throw my would-be kidnappers against my wall, because my own guards are backing out of my room.

They're thoughts are caught between miffed and amazed. One is scared shitless.

I pant out a few breaths, sinking further against the floor, trying to come to grips with the last few minutes and the unavoidable – _God_, is it unavoidable – truth that I'm not exactly an Ordie anymore.

_Un_real.

Something out of fiction, only it's happening. _Really_ happening.

And I have _brain tumors_ – I don't even want to _think_ about how any of this is working or if these undeniable mutations are going to cut up my prospective eighteen months of life or-

Focusing my gaze on the nearest of my guards, I snap, "Well, aren't you going to do something about them? I can't do all the work around here!"

He stammers and then nods at his team, and faster than I can calm my racing heart, the ski-masked men are dragged from my room and a familiar _click-clack_ of heels against marble is rushing down the hallway.

I inhale deep and look up.

Paige stares at me with wide eyes, but she's not scared. I try to stay out of her head, but it's like I can't _control _it anymore – if I controlled it ever, anyway – because the thoughts of everyone in the mansion, everyone in the neighborhood, echoes through my mind.

It's so unbearably loud.

And unsettling.

But also reassuring, because if I ever doubted that Paige loved me, it was confirmed as the tenor of her sigh-soft thoughts reached me.

_Darling girl. What will she do now?_

It was a good question.

What _would_ I do?

I mean, Leo Daela and Jeremiah Daela – despite their being _dead_ and all – weren't very supportive of the Morph movement and here I was, a newly emerged Morph with Daela as a last name.

It's the epitome of ironic.

It also meant that I couldn't really _stay_ in LA, because it was too familiar, West Coast media knew my face too well, and Morphs couldn't really own businesses in California, which meant that all of those Daela assets that were suddenly mine…weren't legally allowed to be mine if I stayed in my own home.

Being Morph wouldn't stay a secret for long.

And it's not like the money mattered to me in the first place, but I live a very sheltered life for all that I am jaded.

Staying in LA isn't an option.

"I have to go," I tell Paige.

She looks startled and I wonder why, but then I remember that she doesn't get that I can read her mind, too. All she knows – _all that the security team told her_ – was that I'd thrown some robbers up against the wall without moving a muscle. She doesn't understand that I'm responding to her thoughts, and I don't really have it in me to tell her that I can.

Paige is smart – she'll figure it out if I keep answering her thoughts and then I won't actually have to confess. Avoiding the situation without actually avoiding the situation.

_Where will she go? And how-_

"I'll go to- I don't know. It's a road trip, Paige. Anywhere but California. And Wyoming. Or Mississippi or Louisiana. Or Florida. Or, ugh, _Texas_. South Carolina is out, too. And West Virginia."

_Those are all states that have banned the rights of_-

"Just, I have to go," I say, standing on shaky legs, my mouth moving as fast as my own racing thoughts. The pain in my head is secondary to everything and I keep moving even though I'm tired and dizzy and emotionally drained. "I'll keep in touch, of course. But I don't think I can ever come back here. It's too much."

"Shae…"

I ignore her in favor of reaching for the sleek black suitcase on the top shelf of my closet. I pack haphazardly, throwing in too many coats and not enough socks but it doesn't matter because as long as I stay in Morph-friendly states, I'll have access to the Daela money. I can buy whatever I need as I go. The important part is the _going_.

Only, I pause when the little suitcase is overflowing with random clothes from my closet and drawers. I exhale and gather my thoughts.

Even if this place was never much of a home for me – at least in the traditional _my-family-loves-me_ way – there were still things that I needed to have with me. My e-reader, for one, and a first edition copies of _The Catcher in the Rye_ and _Fahrenheit 451_; the music box Paige gave me when I turned ten, the one that's ancient and beautiful and plays the sweetest, most melancholy lullaby; my mother's picture, tucked into the box.

And the labradorite pendant, heavy and shaped into a perfect two-inch oval, hanging from thin silver double-chain, that Leo gave me when I turned thirteen in honor of the family name and the Daela trait of labradorite eyes.

Eyes that I had, that stared at me through the mirror. Eyes that I can never escape and that would always serve as a reminder of Leo because his were the exact same shade of cobalt-to-seafoam-to-amber-to-ocher.

I clasp the pendant round my neck and zip up the suitcase.

"You're just leaving?"

There's nothing left to do. I can disappear. I can _go_.

"I have to," I tell her resolutely. "I promise to call."

I can leave knowing that I'm a Daela and that I'm a Morph and that maybe being both will allow me to _do something_ with the precious few months I had left to live.

"Be careful, then. If I can't stop you from going, be _careful_."

"I'm always careful. Usually."

I'd always thought that one day, my destiny would sort of fall into my lap and then I'd know what to do for the rest of my life. I guess that day has come.

Curling my fingers around the suitcase handle, I turn to Paige and smile with the most mirth I have in my arsenal.

"But you know," I tell her as I wheel the suitcase out of my childhood bedroom. "For a supposed genius, I can be really dumb."

* * *

**A/N: This is the end of the origin story. I hope I've done justice to the often tragic origin stories of most superheroes (yes, Batman, I'm talking to you). Thank you to all who reviewed so far – it's incredibly encouraging and you have my gratitude. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


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